


Remembering James Buchanan Barnes

by with_wit_and_perfect_timing



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Feels, Anxiety Disorder, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Nightmares, Bucky Barnes Has Panic Attacks, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes Returns, Bucky Barnes's Notebooks, Comfort/Angst, Domestic Avengers, Domestic Disputes, Domestic Fluff, Drabble Collection, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Frenemies Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson, Gen, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, Minor Peggy Carter, Modern Bucky Barnes, POV Steve Rogers, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Sassy Bucky Barnes, Snippets, Steve Feels, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Triggers, War Veteran Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-09-21 18:49:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 7,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9562070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/with_wit_and_perfect_timing/pseuds/with_wit_and_perfect_timing
Summary: Just some short little snippets of things that have definitely been said between Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes while they were on the run after Civil War.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Short little bloops of Bucky and Steve getting to know each other more. Not planning on setting the location of their whereabouts in every scene, but just imagine them talking in a dark room, sitting abnormally close together. Mostly dialogue but a little movement, too. Leave the rest up to your imagination.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: I'm a big advocate for trigger warnings. Bucky will be talking about his past, which includes psychological torture, physical abuse and torture, visions from the war, mentions of suicide, PSTD, anxiety, and mental illness, alcohol abuse, self-harming, and depression. Nothing too descriptive, I try to keep it as implied as possible when it comes to this kind of stuff. If you have trouble reading these kind of things, be warned that it might become overwhelming. Be safe when reading, and I hope you enjoy!

                “Back in Bucharest, when we were at the safe house – ”

                “And you asked if I knew who you were.”

                “Did you?”

                “I did.”

                “But you were scared.”

                “Oh, I was terrified.”


	2. Military Dame



                “I forgot to ask…”

                “Fire away.”

                A devious smile spread across Bucky’s face. “Did you and the military dame ever do it?”

                “God, Buck. Her name is Peggy Carter.”

                “I know.”

                A beat.

                “Did you ever get that dance?”

                Steve looked at the ground and frowned thoughtfully. “We made plans but…they didn’t work out.”

                “But you did kiss her, right?”

                “No, I didn’t.”

                “That’s too bad.”

                Silence.

                “But she did kiss me.”

                “ _Steve.”_


	3. A Hand

            Words spoken into darkness.

           “Steve? You there?”

            A hand. “Always.”


	4. Damaged Goods

                “What was I like? Back then…before the war, before Hydra...what were we like?”


	5. Art

 

                “How much do you remember of us?”

                “I get flashes. Sometimes, they come in my dreams, or I’ll have a déjà vu moment, but I get a lot of ‘em.”

                Then Bucky smiled. “I remember watching you draw.”

                “Yeah?”

                “You still do that?”

                “Haven’t in a while…but I can start back up if you want.”

                “You know, I think I’d like that.”


	6. Unresponsive

                “Bucky?”

                “…”

                Steve bit his lip. The man sitting in front of him was no longer Bucky Barnes. He’d just have to wait it out. He’ll come back.

                Bucky Barnes had a nasty habit of coming back.


	7. Bloody Murder

                “Do you remember?”

                “No, but you’d have to be more specific.”

                “What Zola did to you, back when you and the rest of the 107th got captured.”

                Bucky pulled his legs up onto the bed and crossed his arm over his knees. “I just remember…cold. And screaming.” He takes a deep breath. “I remember a lot of screaming, and I was always wonderin’ who it was, and what they were doing to him to make him sound so awful. Then, after we got out of there, I was told I was the only one they experimented on.”

                Steve clenched his jaw and tightened his fist.

                “Zola screwed me up so bad, I didn’t even realize it was me who was screaming bloody murder.”


	8. Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky introduces Steve to the wonders and majesty of energy drinks.

            The thing about stealing a car is you’re not quite aware of the gas mileage. So, every five hours or so of driving, Steve was forced to get more gas at a dingy gas station, grumbling about the price. Normally, Bucky would sit motionless in the passenger’s seat, waiting patiently for their continued ‘road trip’. But when Steve stopped at the third gas station that day, he began to get restless.

            Steve went into the convenient store to pay for the gas, he spotted Bucky, perusing the snacks and keeping his head down. Their blue eyes got caught in one another, Steve gave a small nod of encouragement, and Bucky continued his search for food.

            Steve waited in the car, watching Bucky through the glass doors as he bought nourishment for the both of them.

            The door slammed next to Bucky as he slid into his passenger seat, placing the bag of snacks in the back seats and retrieving the ones he wanted. In Steve’s cup holder, Bucky put a tall, black can. Steve picked it up and inspected it.

            “What’s ‘Monster’?” Steve asked in a deeply puzzled voice.

            “An energy drink; I drank it a lot while I was on the run.”

            Steve tried not to let his surprised reaction keep Bucky from discussing the two years he went completely off the grid. This was the first time he had ever brought it up. But one glance from Steve, and Bucky took in a sharp breath and tightened his jaw.

            “It’ll keep you awake, for driving.”

            Steve turned the can around to read the nutritional facts, and his eyebrows shot up into his blonde hairline. “This stuff will keep me up ‘till kingdom come.”

            “Take a sip.”

            He popped the can open and let the electric, artificially citrus soda run over his tongue, crackling and fizzing as it goes down his throat. The strength of the carbonated water caused his eyes to water.

            He pulled the can back. “Holy hell.”

            Bucky opened a bag of beef jerky, and tore a bit off of the meat with his teeth. “Right?” He said, chewing.

            Steve took another drink without hesitation, this time gulping it and feeling the burn.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one has a bit more motion rather than just dialogue, but I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Comments + kudos are highly appreciated ;-)
> 
> \- Kaz


	9. Blonde Hair, Blue Eyes

 

            The next time they went into a gas station store, they were stationed in an abandoned apartment building. Bucky waited in his room while Steve went and bought essentials. He sat on his mattress, elbows on knees, hands rubbing impatiently, but he couldn’t quite remember where he was and why he felt like he was waiting for someone.

            Sometimes, his mind did that. He would blink and all of a sudden, he didn’t recognize anything around him. He definitely did not recognize the muscled blonde that often stood in front of the open, empty fridge, and hardly the dumpster man who stared at him through his mirror. Sometimes, the memories would come back quickly. But other days, they would trickle in slowly, and he’d piece back together what he could remember.

            Bucky’s neck snapped up as he heard the front door slam, followed by the sound of groceries being placed on the table. A name came to his mind, and he decided to take a leap of faith.

            “Steve?” His voice was raspy and broken, but it was loud enough for the biceps with corn-silk hair to appear in Bucky’s doorway. The man leaned on his doorframe, arms crossed over his chest and sporting a strange look in his eyes that Bucky found oddly familiar.

            Yes, Bucky was safe here. He could tell.

            “That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

            Bucky gave a faint smile, but he didn’t feel it. It just felt like that’s something a human being would do. And he was a human being…mostly. He was just proud he got the name right.

            Steve didn’t seem convinced, but somehow Barnes could tell Steve was use to him lying.

            “You okay?”

            Without looking up, Bucky nodded.

            Steve waited a beat, and then went to go put the groceries away, a small feeling of dread growing in his chest.


	10. Together

****

 

            “I’m not the same, Steve, I don’t think. From what I was like back then...it's different. I don’t feel the same.”

            “Yeah, well…welcome to the club.”


	11. Siding With The Universe

            “Do you ever wish you could go back?”

            “All the time, Buck.”

            “But we can’t.”

            “Nah. But we’re here. Both of us. Again.”

            “That’s gotta count for something, right?”

            “Guess the universe couldn’t bear to see us apart.”

            “You know, Steve, I think I’m siding with the universe on this one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one, by far, is my personal favorite. <3


	12. I Remember You

            “Hey, Buck.”

            “Hm?”

            “What do you remember most, about Brooklyn and livin’ there?”

            Bucky kneaded his hands together, deep in thought. “I don’t remember much. Just short snippets, like dreams that you aren’t sure if they’re true or not.”

            “Not much, huh?”

            “No.”

            A beat.

            “But I remember you.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah.” Bucky glanced at Steve with a nostalgic smile, his face illuminated by the dingy lightbulb that swung slightly on the ceiling. “We were always together, weren’t we?” It wasn’t a rhetoric question.

            Steve chuckled. “Well, it sure as hell seemed like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so maybe this one is my favorite. 
> 
> Y'all, I am TRASH. Actually Steve+Bucky garbageeeee.


	13. Wilson

            They were driving now, in another car Steve “borrowed” to keep the pair moving. They sat in silence with the windows cranked down, the wind whipping Bucky’s hair in his face, and the air beating in their ears. They didn’t mind.

            Then, slowly, Bucky rolled up his window, his passive aggressive way of telling Steve that he needed something. Steve glanced at his friend through the corner of his eye, but Bucky’s face was unreadable. So, Steve rolled up his window and took a deep silent breath.

            Then more silence followed, and Steve waited patiently. Bucky would talk when he’s ready.

            “How’d you meet Wilson?”

            Steve laughed, the kind of laugh that ends as soon as it begins. He shakes his head slightly.

            “In DC. I was out on a run; we passed each other a couple of times.”

            “You mean you passed him?” Bucky asked with a cocked eyebrow, his eyes still on the road.

            Steve grinned again, “You could say that, yeah.”

            Bucky gave a tight smile and nodded.

            “He’s a bitch.”

            And then Bucky cranked the window down.


	14. Nose

            “Steve, what’re you doing?”

            “Oh, uh…”

            “Are you…” A small smile creeps on his face. “Are you drawing?”

            Steve looks down. “Yeah.”

            “Can I see?”

            He hesitates, then hands Bucky the sketch book with shaking hands.

            Bucky studied it for a moment, his eyes tracing Steve’s gentle pencil strokes.

            Then he spoke.

            “You know, you’ve got my nose down pretty good.”


	15. Back Then

            Bucky leaned forward on his bed, leaning his elbows on his knees. It was the first sign of movement he had given off that morning. Steve stood by the gas stove, trying his best to make a meal for the two of them.

            “You got sick a lot back then, yeah?” His voice was curious, and low.

            Steve glanced over to him, surprised that he decided to communicate with his words. Then he looked down and gave a sad smile. “Yeah. I guess I did, huh?”

            Bucky gave no response, just rubbed his hands together and furrowing his brow.

            “You had a nightmare, didn’t you?

            Bucky gave a shuddery breath and looked up at Steve with shiny eyes. “You don’t get sick anymore, do you?”

            Steve leaned his head to the sign reassuringly. “No, not anymore, Buck.”

            The brunet nodded and gave a soft sigh of relief. “Good.” Then a tear fell. “Good.”


	16. Growth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky makes a change.

            Steve didn’t know what exactly was taking Bucky so long in the bathroom, but he had a bad feeling about it. It worried him to know Bucky was spending that much time alone, in a tiny secluded bathroom.

            He sat at their table, drinking some early morning coffee and trying not to stare down the bathroom door.

            Without warning, the door swung open and Steve averted his eyes quickly, and then looked back against his will.

            Bucky stood in the doorway, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans (Steve was use to this from when they lived together in the 30’s). But it was Bucky’s facial appearance that caught Steve’s eye.

            The bear Bucky had been so reluctant to shave was gone. He was completely clean-shaven, a look he sported in his younger days. His hair was still long, but it had been washed, combed, and pulled into a messy bun, his baby hairs left to sweep the back of his neck. He had a toothbrush in his mouth with a wide-eyed daze he got in the mornings.

            For a fleeting moment, Steve knew he was looking at His Bucky. He only wondered how long it would last.

            “You need the bathroom?” Bucky called to him, his mouth full of toothpaste foam.

            Steve nodded and rose silently, still eyeing Bucky’s hair. “You decided to keep it?” Steve motions to the bun.

            Bucky shrugged casually. “What can I say,” He cocked an eyebrow, “It’s growing on me.”

            Steve couldn’t help but smile and chuckle softly. “Was that a pun?”

            “Maybe, that depends. What’s a pun?”


	17. Blackened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Bucky has forgotten how to cook.

            Bucky stood at the counter; his hair pulled back, his face set with determination, and an array of food items cluttering the counter space. All of a sudden, he began to feel overwhelmed, and a bit silly.

            _Damn it, James,_ he told himself. _Three ingredients: pasta, spaghetti sauce, and frozen meatballs. Easy. How can you screw it up?_

           Ten minutes later, Bucky found the answer to that question as he scraped the blackened pasta, stuck to the bottom of the pot, into the trash.

            Steve came out of his room with a concerned look – a look Bucky saw frequently.

            Steve walked into the kitchen, and smiled at the sight of Helpless Bucky, scraping the charred remains of his failed dinner plans into the garbage.

            “Spaghetti, huh?” Steve came up behind him. “Buck, you didn’t have to make dinner yourself.”

            Bucky frowned tightly. He finished scraping, walked over the sink, and started placing his dirtied up dishes in there, keeping his head down.

            “I’m sorry,” Bucky said, nearly silently.

            ‘Hey, no, hey, it’s fine. We can make more. I’ll help.”

            _Can’t even make a damn meal._

“Thanks,” was all he said.


	18. The Things Hydra Didn't Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out, Bucky never quite knew how to cook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> |I originally was going to leave the previous chapter alone, but I couldn't help myself. Think of this as a part two.|

            “I haven’t made spaghetti and meatballs in ages,” Steve murmured, rinsing out the pot and filling it with water once more.

            Bucky decided to keep quiet, to keep from making matters worse.

            As the blond salted the water, he looked over at his friend. “Did you want to help?”

            To answer the question, Bucky rose from his kitchen chair and leaned his back up against the fridge, crossing his arms, and awaiting instruction.

            The refrigerator was stationed right next to the stove, where Rogers placed the pot of salted water to boil.

            “Would you mind dicing the shallots for the sauce?” Steve asked, turning the stove burner on high.

            “Shallots?” Bucky inquired curiously.

            “Yeah, they’re like…small onions.”

            Bucky gave a stiff nod and moves to the counter to rifle through the grocery bags in search of tiny onions.

            Steve kept his back to Bucky, trying to ignore Bucky’s self-deprecating attitude. _It’ll pass,_ he thought to himself, _just smile through it._ So he stood in front of the stove, letting the steam from the pot float across his face and feeling the warmth hit his skin.

            Three minutes later, he heard sniffling, and turned to see Bucky wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. A flash of panic, then Steve is reminded by the finely chopped shallots, and his heart rate slows.

            “Damn, Steve.” Bucky’s voice is strained and warbled as his eyes redden.

            “Oh, I meant to warn you about that. It’s worse than regular onions.”

            After a while, Bucky gives up cutting the onions completely and takes a dish towel, wiping his tears and blotting his eyes.

            “Some super soldier, huh?” he muttered.

            Steve turned back to the stove so Bucky couldn’t see his pained expression. Steve hated it when Bucky got caught in a cycle of self-loathing. There wasn’t much Steve could do about it, except talk about it, and Bucky never seemed to want to open up. He would do the opposite, and clam up, refusing to open his mouth unless to release dry humor and passive aggressive remarks.

            “You know,” Steve says quietly from where he’s standing, “Back in the day, you weren’t a great cook either.”

            Bucky doesn’t know how or why, but that statement made him feel a bit better. But he doesn’t show it. “Thanks,” he says sarcastically.

            “I just thought it would help to know that Hydra didn’t change your cooking skills. They’re still shitty.”

            Bucky tries to stop himself, but his face splits into a grin. “Thanks, Steve.”

            And this time, he meant it.


	19. Apologies

             “I can’t remember everything, Steve.”

            “I know, Buck.”

            “Even if there are memories…I don’t get the whole thing. It’s like…looking through a kaleidoscope. Like, patterns, and pieces to fit together. But…it’s hard.”

            “I know, Buck. I’m sorry.”

            “I want to, Steve. I really… _really_ want to.”

            Silence. A sigh.

            “I know, Buck. I’m sorry.”


	20. The Jazz Singer

            “Did we go see films when we were younger?”

            Steve smiled and turned around from the bookshelf. “Yeah.” His eyes became distant. “Yeah, we went a lot together.”

            Bucky nodded, thinking hard, like a scene was playing in his mind. “Your mom took us, when we were really little. I…” His eyebrows furrowed. “I remember her taking us to the first talkie.”

            Steve shook his head, reminiscing the memory. “You were so excited that day. You wouldn’t stop talking about it, ‘the first talking picture show’ you would say, over and over.”

            A memory of a smile floating across Bucky’s face. “That was so long ago. ’27 I think.”

            Steve closed his book and sat in the chair next to Bucky’s. “Yep, _The Jazz Singer._ Mama was so excited to see it; she saved up for weeks to pay for tickets.”

            “After the movie, she was angry, right?”

            Steve nodded. “Well, the movie was kinda racist. Especially now.”

            “Your mom was a real piece of work.”

            “Yeah, yeah she was.”

            “I’m glad I remember her.”

            “Me too, Buck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Jazz Singer was the first talking picture show that showed in New York in 1927. The reason Steve says it's racist is their excessive use of black face (it's used as the main theme of the movie) and racially insensitive jokes.


	21. When You're Smilin'

            Steve liked to play music. Mostly oldies that he needed to catch up on; he could barely even handle the modern music he heard on the radio. In their new safe house, there was a record player with a crate of old records shoved into the corner. Neither of the super-soldiers noticed it until two days after they moved in.

            Bucky came across the crate of records; he was wandering around the house, looking desperately for something to do.

            Most of the records looked unfamiliar, like most things to Bucky.

            Except one.

            _When You’re Smiling,_ recorded by Louis Armstrong in 1932, written by Larry Shay, Mark Fisher, and Joe Goodwin.

            Bucky remembers this song. It was _his_ song. He would belt it in the shower, sing it while he was cooking, hum it during class, and dance to it whenever it came on at a party. Steve would find it insufferable when they moved in together and Bucky insisted on playing it every morning, but sometimes Bucky would catch the blond humming the song while sketching.

            Bucky brushed the dust off the record, placed it on the table, and pulled the needle down, waiting impatiently for the music to begin.

            The record crackled softly, and then the slow, soft melody came in, a trumpet soon following.

            _When you’re smilin’, when you’re smilin’_

_The whole world smiles with you_

_When you’re laughin’, when you’re laugin’_

_Yes, the sun comes with you._

Bucky listened peacefully with his eyes closed, feeling a tightening in his chest and serenity in his head. He sat on the ground; his head rolled to the side, and he soaked the familiar tune in. The slow, smooth drums blended into the romantic trumpet blows. _It sounded like home._

Then the song faded, pulling Bucky back into reality, but he wasn’t quite ready, so he readjusted and replayed the song, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around his shins.

            The second verse came around once more.

            _But when you cryin', you bring on the rain_  
            So stop your sighin baby, and be happy again  
            Keep on smilin, keep on smilin baby,   
            And the whole world smiles with you

            Bucky heard the faint creak of a door opening, and looked up to see Steve, wearing ratty jeans and a sweater, walking down the hall towards him.

             Tears welled up into Bucky’s eyes against his will, and his lips trembled.

            Steve spoke in a low voice. “Never thought I would live to love this song.”

            Bucky squeezed his legs tighter, his shoulders tightening around his jaw. Tears spilled past his cheeks as the song played on. Oh, how he _missed_ this song.

            It reminded him of someone special.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a huge Louis Armstrong fan, so I thought I would write a chapter inspired by one of my favorite songs by him.


	22. Watercolor

            When Steve couldn’t sleep, he would paint.

            Drawing, he saved for the day; where the energy that was flowing through him would come out in lines and curves, clear and straightforward, like a sharp inhale. He used painting for the night, where his dreams still danced blurredly in his mind. He liked the feel of acrylic, but watercolor worked best with his state of being, the colors melding together like the faded memories that waltzed around his head when the moon was shining.

            He would often wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, in their temporary one bedroom apartment. He and Bucky slept on the ground in separate sleeping bags. They didn’t have much in this safe house; it was two rooms, a bedroom, and a moderately sized room with a stove, fridge, and couch.

            Whenever Steve wouldn’t sleep, which was exceedingly often, he would search through his duffle bag for one of the only items he allowed himself to keep: his sketchbook, and his bag of miscellaneous art supplies, such as pallets of paint, brushes, and pencils. They were all travel-sized, and were miniscule in Steve’s huge hands, but they worked well enough.

            He would paint hours into the night, until the moon became sun, and the stars faded into pearly blue.

            A lot of Steve’s art was abstract, colors blending into messages only Steve Rogers would fully understand. But maybe that was the beauty of abstract, to create connection out of shards of reality, to relate to someone else’s story with your own.

            Little did he know that when he couldn't sleep, Bucky couldn’t either.

            If anything, Bucky slept less than Steve. He feared sleep more than dreaded fatigue, so his nights rarely ended in sugar plums. For a while, he would lie awake with his eyes closed, fending off the demons that threatened to plague his mind with suicidal thoughts that reeked of bleach and booze and blood.

            But he soon realized he wasn’t the only soul that lay unstirred at night. He also soon realized he could watch Steve paint for hours on end. Steve seldom knew Bucky was watching him, for Steve’s book light – that he used for painting at night, of course – was faced away from his friend’s sleeping bag, leaving Bucky in the dark.

             But Bucky did watch. He knew that ‘back then’, he watched his friend paint and draw often. Ever since they were young, Bucky admired Steve’s clever way around paint and pens. The other kids at school made fun of Steve for painting flowers and the other kids. Through the years, Bucky would watch Steve create art from afar, gazing at him like he was the only human in the world. When they lived together after Steve’s mom died, Steve would escape to the roof in the middle of the night to set up his easel. Bucky would follow him there shamelessly, and the two of them would sit in stillness and quiet, peacefully letting the cool art soak in, and it would speak for them.

            And after all those years, Steve never changed the way he painting, and for Bucky, it never got old.

             Steve always looked the same when he was painting. The focus in his eyes was unwavering, like there was nothing in the world but him and the paint. His tongue would rest between his lips, which were pulled back in deep thoughtfulness. His eyebrows knitted together, and his cheeks flushed. His hand moved effortlessly, like it was crafted by God himself and put on Earth to make art. He had such focus, yet maintained the aura of complete serenity that baffled Bucky to no end.

            On one particular night, in their one bedroom apartment, the book light flicked against Bucky’s closed eyelids, and his eyes fluttered open immediately. Steve adjusted the small light and set up his easel, being careful not to make too much noise. Bucky smiled to himself, amused by the idea of Steve not wanting to wake his friend up. If anything, Bucky kept himself awake for the chance that Steve was as well, and would take the opportunity to paint.

            That night, Steve chose to use blues in his work; turquoise, baby blue, sapphire, apatite, lapis lazuli, and teal, to name a few. Bucky didn’t know how Steve did it; it was indescribable. Bucky could feel his chest tighten as his breath left his lungs, and feel a flutter in his stomach as Steve swirled his wet brush in the blended paints.

            He decided to take a chance and lift himself up a bit to get a better look. All was well until his damned metal arm creaked from supporting Bucky. He was too slow to get into a normal sleeping position before Steve whipped his head around. Bucky bit his bottom lips nervously as his eyes were caught in Steve’s, and he felt breathless yet again.

            At first, Steve looked like he was caught doing something far more embarrassing than painting, but then his expression changed to something softer, more understanding. His eyes searched Bucky’s for a few moments, then – when he was satisfied – turned back to his easel and continued.

            “Couldn’t sleep?” he called to Bucky, his voice quiet and low. His brush continued to dance around the canvas.

            Bucky felt his breath catch in his chest for a fleeting second, and then cleared his throat. “Sleep and I aren’t on the best of terms.”

            Steve chuckled softly. He swirled his brush into the sapphire and mixed it with the baby blue and teal. “How long has that been going on?”

            Bucky shrugged, “It’s nothing new.”

            The blonde nodded, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

            Bucky inhaled deeply, and then let an involuntarily shuddery breath out. “It’s alright.” And then he smiled to himself. “I have a good reason to stay awake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for that super cheesy ending line, will probably change in the future. I also apologize if it ended awkwardly, I feel like it started out really well and then crapped itself, haha. Anyways, I hope you enjoy regardless. 
> 
> ~ Kaz


	23. Bidding Farewells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one is gonna be a bit different. This is a short snippet of what life was like in the 1930's, during the Great Depression. It's pre-serum pre-war Bucky and Steve, just trying to hang on with what little hope they had for a future. I thought it's a little too short to make it into its own one-shot, so I decided to add it to this one! Enjoy!
> 
> ~ Kaz

            Steve’s hands tightened around the piece of paper. His cheeks burned of something; anger, embarrassment, jealousy, infatuation, who’s to say? Steve certainly couldn’t tell.

            “The CCC?” he read, the big bold letters scrawled in print at the top of the pamphlet.

            Bucky was practically pacing Steve’s bedroom floor. “The Civilian Conservation Corps,” he explained proudly, as if he was the founder of the organization.

            Steve waited a beat, and then sighed. “What do they do?”

            “They offer jobs!” Bucky said with a flurry of excitement. “More than seven _thousand_ guys in New York City alone have been recruited.”

            Steve nodded slowly, feeling an odd sense of unexpected dread. “What kind of jobs?”

            “Oh, all kinds,” Bucky replied, “They say I should be prepared for anything, but it’s mostly clearing woods and construction. Who knows?”

            That was the problem. Who _did_ know? Steve didn’t. “And you want to go and work for them?”

            “Well, _yeah._ They pay a dollar a day, how crazy is that? I barely make two dollars a _week,_ selling papers. This is my _ticket,_ Steve, a way out of this damn mess. They offer food, uniforms, medical care, and even housing.”

            Housing. Damn it.

            “Housing,” Steve repeated quietly, swallowing thickly.

            “Yeah,” Bucky muttered, with not near as much disappointment.

            “What do you need to get in?” Steve felt a small fragment of hope swelling inside of him.

            “You gotta be older than seventeen, at least five foot, and – ” Bucky cracked a smile, “ – you gotta have at least six teeth.”

            “Get out, that’s not a real rule,” Steve said in disbelief, grinning in spite of himself.

            “No, no, honest to God; check the pamphlet, it’s there.”

            Steve chuckled, “Well whaddaya know. I make the cut.”

            Bucky stopped pacing, his face falling and his smile fading, along with Steve’s hope. He sat down next to Steve on his bed and tightened his jaw.

            “Steve,” he said tenderly, “You gotta be at least a hundred and seven pounds.”

            Whatever Steve felt the moments before his friend muttered those words, those emotions were instantly forgotten and replaced with a hollow aching pain in his chest. He was five foot four, asthmatic eighteen year old, who barely made it past the 95 pound mark.

            “I’m sorry,” Bucky said gently, even though they both knew it wouldn’t change anything.

            Then Steve snapped out of his wallowing; he could save that for another time. “How long would you be gone?”

            Bucky looked at Steve for a little longer, his worried eyes studying his face, and then he shrugged. “I have no idea. I guess they don’t tell you until you sign up.”

            Steve nodded, his lips pulling back to form a firm line. “You want to do this?”

            Bucky bopped his head up and down so vigorously, Steve thought he might pop.

            Steve looked back the pamphlet for a few moments, and then took a slow, deep breath.

            “Then you should do it.”

            Bucky hesitated a smile, and his eyes widened in surprise. “What? Y-you’re serious?”

            Steve punched him in the shoulder playfully and plastered on a smile, “Geez, give me some credit. If you want this, then do it. It’s a great opportunity. Screw what anyone else thinks.”

            Bucky cocked an eyebrow, “Including what you think?”

            Steve heaved a sigh, “Especially what I think.”

            *********************  
  
            Bucky signed up for the CCC the next week. He passed the physical with flying colors, as Steve expected, and was scheduled to ship out in the next month.

            “How long you gonna be gone?” Steve asked at the station. Bucky had all of his luggage and everything. Now it was just time to say goodbye.

            “Nine months, at least. That what’s they told me.”

            Even though Steve knew the answer good and well, the words hit him harder than he wanted them to. Bucky and he had never been away from each other for more than two weeks apart. This drastic change seemed all but comforting.

            “You’ll write?”

            “Only if you right back.”

            “C’mon, Buck. Be serious.”

            “Yeah, yeah, twice a week.”

            “You promise?”

            “Cross my heart.”

            “Take care of yourself. Don’t let any trees drop on you.”

            A chuckle. “I won’t, Steve. Be good.”

            The train conductor yelled something incoherently, and the train whistled loudly, letting steam fill the station. Bucky took a shuddery breath and stepped onto the train as the wheels began to hiss. “Be good, okay? I told my mom to check in and make sure you’re eating properly.”

            Steve laughed and shook his head, “You’re ridiculous.”

            “Yeah, but you’ll miss me. You know you will,” Bucky quipped cockily.

            The train began to move, and the other passengers waved farewell to their loved ones with handkerchiefs and all. Bucky made his way to a window and stuck his head out as Steve walked quickly to move along with the train.

            “Give your mom a kiss for me!” Bucky shouted over the screeching train.

            Steve grinned wide, “Don’t have too much fun without me!”

            Bucky and Steve waved their arms wildly until neither of them could see each other. Steve, out of breath and sweating despite the cold weather, stood on the train platform, feeling a slow but powerful feeling of dread form in his stomach.


	24. Silent Secrets

  
            “Did I smoke back then?”

            The two men were mulling around the safe-house, taking the day off from stress and worry. Bucky had been lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, while Steve read at the miniscule kitchen table. Bucky had woken up silent and hadn’t said two words until then.

            Steve looked up from the old paper and ink. “Yeah, you did.”

            “A lot?”

            Steve shrugged, “Not really. It was more of a hobby than an addiction.”

            Bucky nodded thoughtfully, and was silent for a moment. “Did I ever smoke around you?”

            “You tried not to; it was really bad for my asthma” Then the corners of his mouth curled up as he remembered Bucky’s habits. “When we were living together, you would always go up to the roof top for a cigarette to keep the apartment from smelling like smoke, ‘cuz you knew I hated it.”

            “Did I really,” Bucky said quietly. Then he tucked his hands behind his head and sighed. “Damn, wasn’t I a saint.”

            Steve laughed softly, and silently wished he could go back to the time where he’d find Bucky on the roof in the middle of the night, blowing out moonlit smoke, deep in thought. Midnight Bucky was always waist-deep in wanderlust, especially when he held a smoke between his lips. Steve loved listening to Bucky talk when he was high on no sleep and tobacco. His words flowed like poetry, and the two friends who whisper and share silent secrets until the sun rose sleepily over the city. Those nights were the most important.

            “Yeah,” Steve said, and smiled to himself. “Yeah, you were.”


	25. Moonlit Smoke

             "Buck?"

            “Hey, Steve.”

            The metal door closes quietly behind Steve, and he made his way to the roof’s edge, where Bucky sat, one leg dangling off the side. It’s cold out, and a gust of wind cools Steve’s skin as he walks. Bucky holds a lit cigarette in his hand, and his eyes are gazing at the stars, smoke swirling out of his nose.

            Sleep is still dancing around Steve’s head, and his hair and clothes are both rumpled from the first deep sleep he’s had in a long while. A sudden wave of panic had jolted him awake that left him clutching his chest and gasping for breath. That’s when he noticed Bucky’s sleeping bag next to him. Given the conversation they had earlier that day, he already had an idea of where Bucky was hiding.

            “Everything okay?” Steve walks slowly to make sure Bucky isn’t in one of his hostile moods.

            Bucky’s eyes linger on the sky, but after a long moment, he turns to Steve and blinks. “Yeah,” he says quickly. Too quickly. “I’m fine.”

            Steve lowers his defenses, silently kicking himself that he thought that ill of his friend, and sits next to him, letting his legs fall over the roof’s edge. He can hear the sound of traffic below him, and the wind feels nice to the touch. “What’s wrong?” he asks knowingly.

            Bucky shakes his head and sucks in a breath of smoke, and exhales impatiently. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says in a restless tone, “but nothings _right_ either, you know?”

            Steve furrows his brows, “What do you mean?”

            Bucky just shrugs childishly and frowns. Steve is surprised, yet comforted by the casual air Bucky’s tone has, rather than being riddled with insecurity and self-loathing. Apparently, an unhealthy habit like smoking can do more good than harm.

            “It’s like…” Bucky starts, dropping his cigarette butt aimlessly, “Life is at a standstill.”

            Steve chuckles, “Actually, life has been overwhelmingly fast-paced, if you haven’t noticed.”

            “No,” Bucky replies, “Not out _there.”_ He gestures broadly, then points to his temple. “I’m talking about in _here.”_

            Steve squints his eyes at his friend. “Are you drunk?”

            “Nah, can’t get drunk. I’ve just been thinking.”

            Steve nods and says, “What about?”

            “Oh, this and that.” Bucky pulls out his cigarette pack, pulls one out, and then holds it out to Steve. “Care for a smoke?”

            Steve was never particularly fond of the smell of tobacco, and had a deep resentment towards for it back then because of his lack of a strong respiratory system. But rather than declining, Steve takes it from Bucky and puts it between his lips. Bucky hands him a lighter, and Steve takes his very first inhale of smoke.

            Normally, pre-serum Steve would have immediately choked, sputtering and coughing as if someone held a stern grip on his windpipe. But Steve felt the smoke move in and out of his lungs as effortlessly as oxygen.

            Steve blew out the smoke, and felt a bit of tension blow out with it. “Thanks,” he said to Bucky, who was lighting his own cigarette. They sit in silence for a few moments, feeling their stress blow away in moonlit wisps and swirling with the constellations. The breeze catches Bucky’s hair and blows it back, along with his smoke.

            “I mean…” Bucky begins in a quiet voice, “Some days I feel like a stranger in my own body, and other days, I’m _me,_ even though I’m not quite sure who that is, either. But when I’m like this?” He gestures to himself. “I feel so at peace, but my body still doesn’t feel right.”

            Steve thinks about Bucky’s words for a while in silence. Then, he says, “You don’t have to do things just because the Old Bucky did them. You should only do things you’re comfortable with.”

            Bucky falls quiet, and then takes a deep breath. Steve can feel the conversation shift to a different topic.

            “You know I remember things better at night?” Bucky tells him. “It’s true. But it has to be in the dead of night, the only time my brain is supposed to be taking a break. That’s where the nightmares come from.”

            Steve listens intently, wondering what caused Bucky to open up so casually.

            “Like the other night,” he continues, “About a week ago, I woke up in a friggin’ cold sweat because I remembered that I use to tease Rebecca about her red hair. I have a sister…who forgets something like that?” He chuckles to himself, but there’s no light in it.

            Anyone listening to Bucky would’ve thought he’s on the verge of insanity, but Steve missed his Midnight Bucky, who would vent and babble on about anything and everything he had been thinking about that night.

            “You missed me right?” Bucky asks suddenly, with shocking casualty in his voice.

            This is when Steve sputters and coughs, as the smoke hitches in his throat as his heart skips a beat. His physical body might be strong, but he still suffers from the social awkwardness of the scrawny 18-year-old blonde he remembered himself as. Erskine’s formula couldn’t change that much.

            “What?” he says, and cleared his throat one more time.

            “After I fell, you missed me right? I mean, hell, you miss me now, right? Or who I use to be.”

            Steve would have reassured Bucky if he didn’t sound so matter-of-fact, like he was teaching a class.

            “I did, yeah,” Steve attempts to maintain the care-free tone that his friend had. “I miss you like hell back then. I still miss you sometimes, but I’m content with the Bucky I have now.”

            Apparently, Bucky isn’t fazed by the meaning in Steve’s words because he just shakes his head in disbelief.

            “And see,” He points his finger to the air, “that’s what I don’t get. Why would you miss me at all? I’m just a guy.” There’s no trace of weight in his voice. “I’m just a guy, who went to war, and didn’t come back.”

            Steve shifts himself closer to Bucky so their legs are touching. “But you did come back,” he says pointedly.

            Bucky looks at him, and Steve catches eyes with him for the first time that night. They were sparkling. “Yeah,” he says, laughing, and the stars in his eyes twinkle. “I guess I did. Funny how life works that way.” Then his face changes into something Steve was dreading – sadness.

            “Life changes, huh?” he says, and the corners of his lips turn down.

            “Yeah,” Steve says solemnly, “But people change, too. And if who you were back then isn’t who you are now, that’s okay. If it’s not you, then it’s not you.”

            Bucky looks at him again with shiny eyes. “But it can be,” he says in a quivering voice, “I want it to be. Don’t you?”

            Steve thinks about his answer for a beat, and then puts his arm around Bucky and gives his shoulders a squeeze. “Well,” he says, “That’s not my decision to make; it’s yours. And whatever you decide, I will support it with everything I got.”

            Bucky leans into Steve’s arm, and Steve gets a whiff of him: the smell of peppermint, shaving cream, and tobacco, and his heart beats a little faster.

            “You’re a good guy, you know that, Stevie?” Bucky murmurs, his voice muffled by settling fatigue.

            Steve swallows and tries to ignore his heart palpitations that are all too familiar. He sucks in another breath of tobacco and exhales slowly. “Well, I learned from the best.”

            Bucky chuckles sleepily, his body moving with his deep laughs, and smoke filtering through his lips with each breath. “Awh, you’re just saying that.”  


	26. A Dying Light

            Bucky had been in a hostile mood for 48 hours straight. He stayed completely silent, shutting doors, books, and cabinets much louder than needed, and only grunting in response when Steve tells him that they’re relocating to another safe-house. Bucky sat in the backseat of the car, despite the complete emptiness of the passenger seat.

            The first day of hostility, Steve didn’t think anything of it, so he didn’t push. He was used to Bucky’s suppressed speech and his lack of an appetite/sleeping schedule. The second day, when Bucky didn’t change, Steve felt a small nagging feeling of dread in his stomach. The third day – which was mostly spent in the car - when they relocated to the safe-house that was 600 miles away from the previous one, Bucky still hadn’t said a word.

            On the fourth day, Steve decided to push.

            “What’s on your mind?” he asks nonchalantly. He’s sitting on the couch while Bucky sits across the room in a rickety chair with his head down.

            Bucky doesn’t respond. His hair hides his eyes from Steve’s patient gaze.

            “Buck, what’s going on?” Steve’s voice becomes heavier, which earns him a sharp glance from Bucky.

            “You’re acting like some moody teenager,” Steve says, “and if I’m going to have to put up with it, I at least deserve to know why.” He had been feeling the frustration build up, so he takes a deep breath and slows himself down. “If there’s something going on, you can tell me.”

            Bucky doesn’t look up. “You’re not my therapist. I don’t have to tell you anything.”

            “You’re right, you don’t have to tell me everything, but you _can_ tell me _anything.”_

            Bucky tightens his jaw tensely, and Steve fears he lost him again. But after a few minutes, Bucky speaks in a voice barely above a whisper.

            “I’ve just been…” He exhales slowly, and takes in another breath, fiddling with his shirt nervously. “Been seeing things, that I don’t…remember seeing.”

            Steve puts down his book. “Seeing?”

            Bucky grimaces and, by the looks of it, is already regretting saying anything. “Not…seeing, as much as…feeling?”

            Steve makes a choice to push again. “Feeling what?”

            Bucky shakes his head in confusion, “Scared?” It comes out like a question, like he’s asking Steve to validate his emotions.

             Steve decides to prod one last time. “Scared…of what?”

            Bucky sighs restlessly, his knee bounces up and down anxiously, and he glances at the ceiling, as if every word is painful to speak out loud.

            “Scared…to feel.” Then Bucky looks at Steve for the first time in two days, and Steve finds his eyes are filled with heartache and tears.

            “Were we…” Bucky’s voice quivers, and Steve’s throat tightens. “Were we ever…”

            And then, all of the light dies out of Bucky’s eyes, and Steve loses his friend once more.   


	27. Talk

            “I use to talk to you, you know.”

            Bucky doesn’t move from his slouched position on the dingy couch when Steve speaks. His tightened jaw is the only sign of acknowledgement Steve gets. His hair falls in front of his face, shielding his eyes from view.

            “You use to talk to me all the time,” Bucky mutters.

            “I mean…” Steve struggled to find the words. He had been trying to bring the topic up for some time, but Bucky seemed like he was in a stable mood, and Steve didn’t want to be responsible for unhinging him. But Bucky woke up this morning in a dark place, and Steve was too afraid to ask him exactly how dark it was. That morning, he started to think of tales from his past that might lift his friend’s spirits.

            “I mean,” he started again, “After…you fell.” Well, this plan backfired. “After you died.”

            Bucky’s head snaps up, then quickly lowers, a synthetic veil to make Steve think Bucky doesn’t care as much as he truly does.

            Steve went on. “I never got to go to your funeral. I never got to…kneel at your gravestone. But…I kept you around, Buck. Even before the train, your voice was always inside my head, telling me to stop doin’ the stupid stuff I was doin’, like getting into fights. And when you weren’t around, your voice was what gave me…strength, I guess.” God, the words sounded so stupid coming out of his mouth. Bucky must think –

            “Keep going,” he whispers from the corner, his hair back in his face.

            Steve wrings his hands and takes a shuddery breath. “You would always egg me on to do bold things, though, like in grade school, and standing up to people who picked on other kids…things like crashing a plane into the ocean to save millions of lives.”

            Bucky’s looking at him now, his eyes piercing into Steve’s.

            “So…when you died, I kept you with me. When I came out of the ice, that didn’t change. Sometimes, I would just sit and talk to you, and maybe if you were dead, you would’ve heard me. Your quips and sly lines were in my head all the time; I could even feel you laughing at me when I put that ridiculous suit on for the first time.” Steve’s throat tightens as he chuckles.

            Bucky’s eyes are stone cold as Steve’s moisten.

            “And now that you’re here, I get to hear that voice. And it’s such a strong feeling.” Steve loses himself in his train of thought. Bucky notices.

            “Is that all you wanted to say?” he asks in a patient tone.

            “I think so.”

            They sit in silence for a while, both wondering if Steve’s words were better off unsaid. Them, Bucky decides that they weren’t.

            “I heard you.”

            Steve looks up from his hands, which were rubbed raw. “What?”

            “After I fell, when they took me into the operating room, you were there, telling me it was okay, that the pain would be over soon.”

            Steve listens with a quickening pulse.

            “When they first started to…recondition me, your voice was there, telling me to stay strong, even when they were beating the shit out of me.” Bucky swallowed his words as his throat closed. “I fought back…for seven years.”

            The words struck Steve harder than he could ever believe. Seven years of relentless torture?

            “Eventually, they came up with new technology. I…fought back as hard as I could, but they wiped me. Everything about me…including you.”

            Tears slick down Steve’s cheeks.

            “Once your voice was gone, that was it. That was all they had to do. They gave me a new voice…one that I still had trouble suppressing. The new voice was Hydra.”

            Bucky’s voice began to tremble, and he looks at Steve with desperate eyes.

             “I tried, Steve, I really did,” His voice gets higher as tears fill his eyes, “I tried to fight it…for as long as I could, I really did.” Bucky’s shoulders begin to shake as he chokes back sobs.

            “God, I know, Buck, I know. You did good, I promise.” Steve sits next to him and puts a gentle hand on his shoulder.

            Bucky swallows deeply and sighs, wiping his tears and collecting his thoughts. “When I escaped, that voice of Hydra stayed with me. Told me to do stupid things, like going back to the base. Stupid things like putting a bullet in my head.”

            Steve forces himself to bite his lip to keep a sob in his throat.

            “But…when I tried, to kill myself I mean, I heard it. Telling me to stop, that I’m worth something…and that I have something to live for. I heard it.”

            Steve already knows the answer. “What did you hear?”

            Bucky looks at him, with teary eyes and flushed cheeks. “You.”


End file.
